“MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. ‘There is no one who could have told him this. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. CHAPTER XII. Hoddy! All her fears fell away. It was the beginning of June. \"No, but thank you. A faint anticipation of triumph showed in his manner and a subdued excitement.
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